


it's only desire, taking you higher and higher

by tevinterimperium



Category: Wet Hot American Summer (2001)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:55:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4508601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tevinterimperium/pseuds/tevinterimperium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so, maybe it <em>was</em> McKinley's idea to make out in his bed at five-thirty in the morning before all of his campers returned to the bunk. It seemed like a good idea at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's only desire, taking you higher and higher

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to apologize to my mother, david wain, and especially bradley cooper. i'm so sorry

It’s the third day of camp and McKinley knows that Moose is about to scream a wake-up call for all the campers and the boys are going to scurry back to their cabins in a flurry of grunting and shrieks, but he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to shove Ben off of him in the pint-sized cot that they’re cramped into.

He can’t say that it was necessarily  _Ben’s_ idea, since Ben is far too wrapped up with his own image of a proper camp counselor and likes to believe that playing things safe gets you somewhere in life. That’s not to say that Ben didn’t agree to meet McKinley in his bunk at five in the morning when all the boys ran off to sloppily make out with all the girls in other bunks. And, sure, that’s _also_ not to say that McKinley didn’t suggest the idea when they were practically leaning on each other at the special Second Day of Camp Staff Party, as there always is, but that’s also not to say that Ben didn’t lean in right back and grin shyly and agree, softly.

Admittedly, McKinley’s own bunk wasn’t particularly the best idea for a place to get laid. In the morning, it’s still grey and dewey and vaguely foggy so your eyes glaze over and you can’t really focus, but they’ll have to get the timing just right if they don’t want to get caught, work quickly and efficiently. Ben walked over almost half an hour ago all dressed up in a polo and khakis as if this were a meeting for tea. (McKinley liked helping him get out of those, though.)

Now, though, Ben is naked except for the boxers pulled down slightly on his thighs, and he’s holding onto the both of them in his right hand, and McKinley is making weak noises and leaning up to kiss Ben frustratedly. Ben doesn’t really seem to notice, though, he’s leaned down and looking at where both of their  _dicks_ are in his hand, and he looks half startled and half thrilled. McKinley doesn’t know if he’s a virgin or something, and sure, he looks really cute with that awestruck look in his eyes, but McKinley would really like to come before all the twelve year olds flood into the bunk and Ben has to flee.

McKinley might be steadily cursing, he can’t really tell, mumbling Ben's name and blasphemous curses, but he’s breathing heavily and Ben starts to pump his hand and thank  _God,_ honestly, and he can’t really differentiate the anxiety of getting caught in bed with Ben to the thrill of getting caught in bed with Ben. He manages to pull down Ben’s face by his neck and begins to somewhat kiss him, but it’s hard when you’re also getting jacked off and are also worrying about the impending arrival of your entire group of campers.

Ben sets a fast pace. Thank God for Ben.

There’s half a second where McKinley thinks he’s entirely bliss with the world and that if he had to die at any given moment it would right now, fingers grabbing at Ben’s sweaty back, moaning into Ben’s mouth, surrounded by everything that is Ben, and then the next half a second, McKinley is coming all over Ben’s hand and it’s an awful mess but he’s grinning and gasping and then he’s falling back onto the bed, boneless. It’s sticky and disgusting but McKinley  _laughs,_ and so does Ben, and they’re both giggling in McKinley’s tiny little camp bed with the covers half thrown over Ben’s waist and the impending concept of getting caught making their hearts pound in unsteady overlapping beats between them. 

McKinley isn’t necessarily the most experienced person, considering that he generally comes off as your generic heterosexual jock (who might, on occasion, wear too-short-shorts, but this fact is usually overruled by his overall finesse with any given athletic activity). That’s not to say McKinley hasn’t gotten laid, he’s  _sixteen,_ and he’s turning seventeen in the fourth week of camp. He’s also pretty hot, in a purely objective view of things. A girl once sucked his dick but it doesn’t really matter because a blowjob is a blowjob.

Ben rests his head against McKinley’s, eyes closed blissfully, gentle laughs vibrating through his body, and McKinley thinks that he might just be in love. The sun is starting to rise, slightly, through the cracked window, and Ben, beautiful Ben, gorgeous Ben, has a false halo made of daylight around his wonderful golden hair. McKinley leans up to kiss him on the forehead, and then the nose, and then chastely on the mouth. It's wonderful.  

McKinley reaches down and helps out Ben with the whole situation. Ben looks utterly at loss at what to do, and McKinley wraps his hand where Ben’s hand just was and kisses him again, this time less chastely, and on the mouth again. Ben makes the loveliest little noises at the back of his throat. If McKinley dies, he wants Ben’s struggled little grunts to be the last thing he hears.

McKinley picks up the pace and Ben starts breathing more raggedly, McKinley is kissing along his neck and he might be making little hickeys but even McKinley can’t really tell, and some part of him wants to leave a mark that the polo collar won’t cover up but the logical part of him tells him that that’s a very,  _very_ bad idea. But, then again, another part of him likes the idea of seeing how Ben will frown and try to pop the collar in a specific way to impossibly cover up the mark that McKinley has left along that wonderful tan neck, and McKinley will watch and lean against the doorframe and come up behind him and kiss his nape. It all sounds very appealing.

Ben comes and McKinley’s name is shouted brokenly from his lips, and he shudders and shakes and he drops his head down to McKinley’s chest, eyes fluttering.

It’s nice for a few minutes, neither of them are keeping track of how long, basking in the afterglow before Ben can actually get his breath back, and sure, it’s a little bit gross, but Ben is warm and he burrows his head into McKinley’s shoulder and it’s nice.

Then, there are the sounds of sneakers running across damp grass, and then there are shouts and grunts of boys shoving past one another, and then McKinley is sitting up and jostling Ben’s position atop of him and then they are both look at the door for a moment. Then they look at each other. Then the door is opening and a fucking flood of twelve year olds are running through. Ben is scrambling for the covers and McKinley is tugging at his briefs.

Someone, one of the boys with his hoodie pulled over his head, notices the shouting of McKinley over the roars of the other campers. He must look like an idiot, flushed bright red, almost entirely naked, with Ben struggling under the covers right on top of him. There are a few shouts of “Holy shit, McKinley is getting laid!” and “Who is it? Who is it?” and a “Is that a counselor?” and McKinley sort of wants to die.

All of his campers kind of corral themselves out of the cabin, shouting taunting comments and a “How hot is she?” here or there, but McKinley is covering his face in his hands and barking out orders for them to get out  _immediately._ Yeah, he _definitely_ wants to die. Once the door closes behind them, Ben removes the quilt from over his head and starts to gather the clothing he threw about the floor earlier. He wipes his hand and stomach on the blanket with a distant look of disgust and beautifully bends down for his shirt.

“Sorry,” McKinley begins, “You were right, this was a stupid idea, I should’ve taken some precautions, sorry, I really didn’t think that we would —,”

“Hey,” Ben says, half-whispered. His voice sounds like honey. McKinley wants to kiss him again. “It’s not your fault.” He pauses, clutching the lavender polo between his hands tightly. “It was nice.”

“Oh,” says McKinley. He sounds more disappointed than he’d intended. “Uh, yeah. It was.”

“Yeah.”

“So, um…”

“Do you want to meet up later?” Ben says as he turns his shirt right-side-out. 

“Like, meet up, or…”

“Either one.”

“We can meet up at lunch.”

“Oh,” Ben says, as he’s tugging up his khaki shorts and buttoning them in a fluid motion. He tugs down the pant leg and smooths his hands over the front of his shirt. He then tugs on the  _second_ polo, which is a much more flattering shade of light blue, over top it, only to smooth it out again. He self consciously checks the collars. “I think Susie wanted to meet with me at lunch. For the play.” The End-of-First-Week musical. One of the most important productions in the entire year, no doubt. “Maybe some other time?”

McKinley says, “Oh,” too, because that’s the first thing he can manage. He knows that Susie and Ben were dating only about thirty two hours ago, and he also knows that he and Ben have been dating for only about thirty two hours, and technically Ben and Susie were still together when McKinley kissed Ben. Or when Ben kissed McKinley. Both. Whatever.

“I mean, yeah,” McKinley continues, “Definitely. Like, during activities?”

“Don’t you have something to do?”

“I mean, I’m supposed to go hiking with Bunk Five, but they basically know the way. Plus, you’re way more important than Bunk Five. Bunk Five never brings enough water bottles, anyway. They don’t know a thing about hydration. One time some ten year old fainted and I had to carry him on my back for two miles. And that was just on the first hill. We hadn’t even left camp yet.”

Ben pauses, looking up from where he’s been fiddling with his shoes at the edge of the bed. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

McKinley grins into his lap, almost diffident, pulling the covers back up over his waist. He doesn’t meet Ben’s eye, searching for his discarded shirt, as he says, “Yeah, well,” which isn’t really a full sentence, but he thinks Ben will know what he means. Or, he sort of hopes. He’s only known Ben for thirty eight hours, to be fair. He thinks he might be a little bit in love, though. Not that he’s going to admit  _that_.

Ben turns around and says “Hey,” in that honey-sweet voice again, gentle and pressing, and McKinley can’t help but look at him. His eyebrows are furrowed and there’s an adorable amount of creases there, and McKinley wants to smooth them out with his finger. He contemplates doing that but Ben is very suddenly quite close to his face, his arms on either side of McKinley’s waist, nose hovering incredibly close to his. It’s not exactly an  _unappealing_ situation, though.

Ben leans in, hovers right over McKinley’s lips like he’s going to kiss him, but keeps that desperate amount of space between them where their breathes intertwine. He says, “This is nice,” and then presses a chaste little peck before pulling away, and McKinley thinks that that tiny little brush of lips is almost as good as necking at the staff party in the corner behind the D.J. turntables. Which was also very nice. Everyone was too drunk to notice and Ben does absolutely incredible things with his tongue once he’s had three red Solo cups of beer.

“I think Susie might want me to work on the musical during activities, too,” Ben continues once he pulls back, scanning the bedside table for anything he’s left. “But Actors’ Equity, right? I’m sure I can get away for a bit.” 

“If it’s Actors’ Equity, then shouldn’t you be getting out at lunch?”

Ben looks like he’s contemplating that for a moment. “No.”

There’s a pause when Ben walks over towards the window right behind McKinley’s bed and opens it up, the sound of beds creaking and counselors groaning and birds distantly screeching filling the cabin momentarily. Ben places his hands flat on the ledge and looks both ways, as if he’s about to cross a street.

“Uh, so, where do you want to meet?”

“What?”

“During activities. Hey, do you know that shed out across the green?”

Ben pauses, trying to imagine it. “Yeah?”

“How about there.”

“That’s not a very good place for hanging out.” 

“Who says we’re just hanging out?”

McKinley does his best to smile wickedly, but he doesn’t think it’s very successful. A grin spreads across Ben’s face until it’s a exquisite blooming beam, though, gentle dimples on his cheeks, his eyes alight like he’s about to start laughing. McKinley wants to kiss him again and is it weird how much he wants to kiss Ben? Ben must look incredibly kissable all the time. Thank God that they didn’t take too long before hooking up. McKinley would’ve absolutely died if he had to live with Ben’s kissable face and not be able to kiss it.

In fact, Ben kisses him just before he leaves, and it’s astounding because it feels domestic and brief and McKinley holds Ben’s neck and Ben presses their lips together, tenderly, before pulling away and McKinley would like to change his mind, if he does die, he would like it to be right  _now,_ seated on the bed with Ben’s kiss lingering on his lips and those lovely, gorgeous golden-blue eyes focused on him like he’s the only person in the world. If God is real, McKinley would like to thank Him. Being around Ben is truly a religious experience. McKinley ought to start praying.

Ben says, quietly, “Bye,” and gracefully hops out of the window. He sits down on the ledge and swings his legs over so he’s dangling his feet off, and then he hops down to the ground with a small grunt. It’s not particularly an impressive fall, but he grins at McKinley before he flees towards… somewhere. McKinley doesn’t know if he has a bunk, since he’s not a bunk counselor. He’s probably heading to breakfast. Probably.

McKinley shouts, “Alright!” just loud enough for the campers to hear as he finds his athletic shorts and tugs them on. The door is opened and suddenly he is being rudely barricaded by a bunch of sweaty twelve year olds, who are practically hopping on his bed and tugging at his clothing. They’re shouting and grinning and McKinley instantly regrets allowing them to enter.

“Was she hot?”, “Was she a counselor?”, “Did you take any of her clothes?” and “Where the hell did she go?” are among the loudest questions that McKinley receives, all of which he ignores. He unenthusiastically attempts to round them up for breakfast, and a few of them seem willing to comply, while the others search for the fictional female’s nonexistent thong along the outskirts of the bed. McKinley tugs on his too-long socks over his ankles and watches them out of the corner of his eye.

“Was it Abby Bernstein?” asks some petite little kid in only his boxers as he hops into his shorts. “Victor told me that he was going to get laid, and that Abby Bernstein definitely wants to get laid really badly, so he’ll do it, for the safety of the community. Or something.”

McKinley would make an attempt to smother his laughter but he instead just sort of looks down at his feet in an attempt to avoid the kid’s gaze. He’s about sixty five percent sure that Victor is an unfortunately closeted homosexual, and that he’s never been with a woman in his life. And the mere idea of McKinley having sex with  _Abby Bernstein_ is so astoundingly absurd that he snorts down at the kid in an incredulous reply. Abby Bernstein is one foot shorter and almost two years younger than McKinley, and she chews too much gum and looks like she’s spent half of her life in a tanning bed. If McKinley were  _straight_ he still wouldn’t fuck her. If he would get a million dollars if he fucked Abby Bernstein, he still wouldn’t do it.

“No, it wasn’t Abby Bernstein.” 

“Then who was it, McKinley!” shouts one of the new kids, who is presently underneath McKinley’s bed. He sneezes at the dust afterwards and makes a discontent huffing noise.

“I’m not telling you.”

The short kid from before, who is now stepping into his flip-flops and looking at his hair in the mirror, says, “Was she hot?” 

“Yeah,” McKinley replies, sauntering towards the doorway. He steps into his shoes without touching the laces and puts his hand on the handle. He stops, looking back at the swarm of boys behind him, all tugging on their clothes for the new day. They’ve all just returned from making out with girls they’ll forget the names of in Bunk Seven, gross sloppy open-mouthed kisses childishly under the covers, and McKinley almost starts to laugh because he was just doing the  _exact same thing._ Just older. And a lot more involvement of the hands. And he actually took off his clothes. What a thrilling endeavor. “She was hot as hell.”

There’s a chorus of “oh”s from the cabin. Arty slips underneath McKinley’s arm to open the door, and the air is cool and damp from the evening before. He pauses to curse himself for not sending Ben off without a jacket, or something. He would’ve looked nice in one of McKinley’s hoodies, certainly. They would’ve stretched across the chest and fit snugly at the arms. McKinley momentarily mourns the loss of such a sight, but amends it by promising to get Ben into one of those sweatshirts next time. Assuming there’s a next time. Is that presumptuous?

McKinley says, “C’mon, guys,” and he takes a few steps out and almost trips on his shoelaces, but he never ties those until breakfast. A few of the boys titter and run ahead of him towards the mess, while one hops on his back and a small number trail behind McKinley to make amiable conversation. Not that it’s really amiable. Or conversation at all, actually. They’re just asking him questions and he’s responding halfheartedly as he adjusts the position of the kid grasping around his neck for dear life.

There’s some vague gathering around the flag pole. McKinley uses the time to stretch out his arms and yawn grandly. Andy and Katie make out a few feet away and McKinley distantly wonders why  _they’re_ allowed to make out right here on public grounds, but when McKinley wants to kiss Ben at any given moment, they have to shove themselves into the nearest shed or commode or closet. Which is sort of a nice excuse for touching but it _might_ also be fun to make out in front of the flag pole. You never know until you try it.

McKinley enters the mess a few feet behind the largest mob, and a few of the boys from his bunk have already established a table for them. He passes J.J. as he goes and high fives him, to which J.J. enthusiastically shouts “McKinley!” for no specific reason and then turns back to his pancakes. McKinley isn’t sure how he already got his food, or how he got pancakes. They aren’t even on the menu.

What Gene _is_ serving is some unappealing bowl of what _might_ be oatmeal, but the menu doesn’t say, as well as undercooked tater tots and some menacing-looking eggs that are incredibly lumpy and far too yellow to be healthy. McKinley isn’t entirely sure how this camp is passing health regulations, but he supposes that as long as kids are eating it, it’s probably fine.

(He gets the tater tots, despite the way they make soft mushy noises when he digs his fork into them. He probably shouldn’t bother.)

(There’s also a cup of orange juice that may not be orange juice. If it is, it’s far too watery and has absolutely no pulp. It tastes more like someone dipped a single orange slice into a glass of water, actually. He didn’t think the camp was  _that_ low on funds.)

McKinley deposits himself at the head of the table surrounded by the remainder of his cabin, frowning at the number of people who have decided on the odd oatmeal-like substance. He doesn’t see Arty, which is weird, because the kid has to eat sometime, right? He can’t just go straight to the start-of-the-art broadcasting facility  _first thing in the morning._ McKinley will interrogate him later. And also make him shower. The broadcasting facility is starting to smell weird.

The clamor of the other campers settling into their seats resides, and is replaced by the mumbled conversations of half-asleep ten year olds yawning into their scarcely edible meals and discussing the days events. Katie and Andy are making out in the corner again, while Coop is clearly pretending not to watch them, but very obviously is. J.J. is trying to shove an entire pancake, whole, into his mouth, syrup and all, and Victor is leaning back in his seat and laughing uproariously at the scene. The adults’ table, which is right next to the event, does not seem to notice. Abby Bernstein is making eyes at Neil and he’s trying to ignore her.

McKinley digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, sighing, when he hears his campers shouting. They’re all daring Matthew to drink his not-quite-orange-juice while he’s doing a handstand, which he was previously bragging about yesterday. McKinley is about 80% sure that this is an awful idea, and 100% sure that Matthew cannot actually do a handstand. He’s just about to take away the somewhat-orange-juice and scold them when he sees Ben across the mess.

Beautiful, gorgeous Ben, his lovely golden hair combed precisely, is holding a tray of unpalatable eggs that can be compared to the color of a highlighter, looking at his food with a worried expression. But when McKinley looks at him, Ben looks up from the other side of the room, and the look on his face instantaneously changes to a wide, toothy smile. His eyes crinkle delightfully and those perfectly imperfect dimples dot his cheeks. He waves.

McKinley, from the across the hall, waves back.

He smiles, too. He thinks that this is going to be a good summer after all.

**Author's Note:**

> what a terribly cheesy ending


End file.
